We've done our hitch in France Poem

“We’ve done our hitch in France”
I’m sitting here thinking of the things I’ve left behind, And I hate to put on paper, what is running thru my mind. We’ve dug a million trenches, and cleaned ten miles of ground, And a meaner place this side of Hell, I know is still unfound, But there is one consolation, gather closely while I tell, When we die we are bound for Heaven, for we’ve done our hitch in Hell.
We’ve built a hundred kitchens for the cooks to stew our beans, We’ve stood a hundred Guard Mounts, and cleaned the camp latrine. We’ve washed a million mess kits, and pealed a million spuds. We’ve rolled a million blanket rolls, and washed a million duds, The number of parades we’ve made it would hard to tell, But they’ll not parade in Heaven, for we’ve done our hitch in Hell.
We’ve killed a million rattle-snakes, that tried to take our cots, And shook a hundred centipedes from out our army socks. We’ve marched a hundred thousand miles, and made a thousand camps, And pulled a million cactus barbs from out our army pants. But when our work on earth is done our friends behind will tell. When they died they went to Heaven, for they done there(sic) hitch in Hell.
When the final “taps” is sounded and we lay aside lifes care, And we do the last parade up the shining stair, And the angles (sic) bid us welcome and the harps begin to play, And we can draw a million canteen-checks and spend them in a day, It is then we’ll hear St. Peater(sic) tell us loudly with a yell, Take a front seat “166th” for you’ve done your hitch in Hell.
Anonymous

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“We’ve done our hitch in France”
I’m sitting here thinking of the things I’ve left behind, And I hate to put on paper, what is running thru my mind. We’ve dug a million trenches, and cleaned ten miles of ground, And a meaner place this side of Hell, I know is still unfound, But there is one consolation, gather closely while I tell, When we die we are bound for Heaven, for we’ve done our hitch in Hell.
We’ve built a hundred kitchens for the cooks to stew our beans, We’ve stood a hundred Guard Mounts, and cleaned the camp latrine. We’ve washed a million mess kits, and pealed a million spuds. We’ve rolled a million blanket rolls, and washed a million duds, The number of parades we’ve made it would hard to tell, But they’ll not parade in Heaven, for we’ve done our hitch in Hell.
We’ve killed a million rattle-snakes, that tried to take our cots, And shook a hundred centipedes from out our army socks. We’ve marched a hundred thousand miles, and made a thousand camps, And pulled a million cactus barbs from out our army pants. But when our work on earth is done our friends behind will tell. When they died they went to Heaven, for they done there(sic) hitch in Hell.
When the final “taps” is sounded and we lay aside lifes care, And we do the last parade up the shining stair, And the angles (sic) bid us welcome and the harps begin to play, And we can draw a million canteen-checks and spend them in a day, It is then we’ll hear St. Peater(sic) tell us loudly with a yell, Take a front seat “166th” for you’ve done your hitch in Hell.
Anonymous